


'Til We Grow Older

by elicul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Canon verse, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot Collection, Panty Kink, Sick Sam Winchester, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform, h/c
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:08:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5156447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elicul/pseuds/elicul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't sleep so well at night, waiting up and shivering. Heater's gone and money's tight, in this little home that I'm living in... We are all living 'til we grow older. You be the worker. I'll be the soldier"<br/>-Cha-Ching (by Imagine Dragons)<br/>A series of short stories depicting the bond between two brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Agh. I have no idea what this is or why I wrote it but the idea hit me and, I dunno, maybe it's okay...? It was longer, but I couldn't make it transition well, so I just broke it up into a bunch of chapters.
> 
> The title of the fic is a nod to the Imagine Dragons song "Cha-ching" which has always reminded me of the Winchesters, so yeah.

As a baby, Sam struggled to adjust to life on the road. He was often fussy and restless, and John did his best to soothe his youngest son, but he was distant, his hands were often cold, so Sam would only cry more when John would pick him up.

John was out a lot, especially in the evenings when he couldn't even imagine trying to face the night sober and alone.

This meant that it was often Dean who would have to get out of bed and lull his baby brother back to sleep. Dean quickly learned that there was only so much Sam could possibly need. He would feed Sam, and when that didn't work he would change Sam, and when that didn't work he would just sit next to the makeshift crib and trace his fingers over the swirl of Sammy's ear, the incline of his nose, the squiggled lines of Sam's ever moving fingers and toes. Sometimes nothing Dean tried seemed to be enough to quiet the baby, but most nights Dean's presence, his warmth, could ease Sam back into sleep.

As they got older, Sam sought out Dean's touch more and more. He held his brother's hand while crossing the street, he clung on too tight to hugs and held on for too long whenever he got hurt. He would clamor onto Dean's bed, or, at least, onto Dean's side of the bed, and curl up against Dean's chest whenever he had a nightmare. Dean was always very patient with Sam, didn't mind losing a few hours of sleep here or there because Sam had woken him up over a bad dream. It was worth it to feel Sam's breathing sync itself with Dean's as the two of them laid in bed so close that John couldn't always tell who's limbs were who's, they just looked like they fit together like puzzle pieces.

Then came a time when Sam was maybe too old to need Dean quite so often. Dean understood this, even drew back a little. He started to hesitate, with his hand halfway to Sam's shoulder and then have to reach up to rub at the back of his neck instead. When they went to bed, he didn't pull Sam right up against his body as a preemptive strike against nightmares anymore. Their breathing no longer matched.

Sam started to feel the distance as he got closer to high school. He missed the way that Dean used to comfort him, but they were young men now, and they learned not to show weakness.

John would often bring his boys hunting with him, now that they were both old enough. This meant long hours, sometimes days, of nonstop driving, and eating infrequently, and pissing in empty water bottles, and listening to classic rock and minimal talking. Sam often got car sick when he was kept cooped up in the Impala for too long.

When Dean was the one driving and John was asleep in the backseat, he would pull over to the side of the road every four or five hours and let Sam take a little walk; stretch his legs, calm his breathing, settle his stomach. He hated seeing Sam so uncomfortable. A few times John would wake up while they were pulled over. He would yell at Dean for delaying them unnecessarily and order him to start driving again. John would never pull over to let Sam recollect himself a bit. Sure, he was sympathetic, but they were on a hunt, after all, and whatever they were hunting wasn't going to stop just because John's youngest couldn't handle long car rides.

So, when John was driving and the boys were stuck in the backseat of the Impala for however long, Sam would lie with his head in Dean's lap. They would lace their fingers together and Dean's thumb would roll in circles over the back of Sam's hand. He would stroke his little brother's hair and speak gently as Sam's stomach flipped. Sam would whine at the nausea. At the time, Dean had still been much bigger than Sam, so it was no trouble to occasionally pull Sam into his lap and let the poor boy try to sleep, curled up tight into a ball of ill-fitting jeans and too loose sweatshirts and floppy brown hair. Sam's cheek would rest on Dean's chest and they would just hang on to one another.

When it was really bad for Sammy, Dean would rub his hand across Sam's stomach, usually over his shirt, but also sometimes under it, and Sam would drift off, like he used to when he was a fussy baby who needed Dean to soothe him back to sleep. He would wake up hours later and find Dean's hand still gliding back and forth across his abdomen.

Even now, when they've been driving for longer than Sam is completely comfortable with, despite the fact that they are both in their thirties, Dean will take one hand off the wheel and reach it toward Sam, and Sam will take it every time. He will scoot himself closer to Dean and lay his head on his brother's shoulder and try not to think about the motion of the car as it barrels down the interstate. He will think, instead, of the facts about the case they were working on, or of the way Dean always smells like dirt and leather and cheap motel soap and gunpowder in the best possible way. Sam will not let moments like these slip by. He knows that they matter, to him, to Dean, even if Dean never talks about them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean usually took care of Sam when he was sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me what I'm doing. I don't know. I never know.

"Dean," Sam whined. "Get offa me."

His brother laughed. "Aw, come on, Sammy. Don't be a prude."

Dean tugged the comforter out of Sam's clammy hands. Sam shivered as his brother eased him out of his grey hoodie. "Atta boy." He peels off Sam's sweaty t-shirt and wiped off the kid's forehead and neck. He tried not to think too much about it when he took off Sam's slightly too short pair of sweatpants, leaving his younger brother clad only in his boxers.

He sighed sympathetically when Sam began shivering again.

Something about Sam not feeling well brought out Dean's maternal instincts. Ever since he was four he'd taken care of Sammy, but whenever Sam got sick, Dean went into hyperdrive, doing everything he could to make sure Sam got better as quickly as possible. It was somehow different, nursing Sam back to health after being sick versus being injured on a hunt. Injuries were common and normal to hunters, whereas completely average, un-supernatural illness was much more foreign to Dean, and so he overcompensated. Not that Sam minded. He liked being babied a bit, since when he got sick, he was really down for the count. A little cold, he could handle, but once he got a fever, it was all downhill from there.

“You got a shitty immune system, kid.”

It had been a dozen or so years since the last time Dean did this, took care of Sam like this. Dean leaned over and scooped Sam off of the couch and into his arms. Despite his size, Sam was relatively easy to carry, although he did squirm a bit in order to better align himself so that his cheek laid against Dean's chest, desperate for warmth. Dean allowed it, maybe even encouraged it as he pulled Sam closer to him.

The motel bathroom was not nearly large enough. Sam and Dean both barely fit in it as Dean set Sam down into the tub of cold water. Sam gave a shout of protest but understood the necessity. His fever was reaching dangerous heights, soaring up to one hundred five degrees within the last hour. Any higher and Dean would have no choice but to bring Sam to the hospital. He was doing all he could to help Sam, he had always hated feeling helpless, but nothing was quite working.

Kneeling down next to the edge of the bathtub, Dean said, "I'm sorry, but it's gotta be done."

Sam nodded and continued to shiver violently. Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder to persuade him to lower himself into the water just a bit more. He cupped his hands and scooped up water to run through Sam's hair, which was getting out of control. Any longer and Dean would have to go at it with a pair of hedge trimmers in the middle of the night.

He tried to wash Sam's hair and face, but Sam kept pushing him away, very unhappy with the way the cold water felt. So Dean sat back on his heels and counted to one hundred before grabbing the three towels the motel provided and handed one to Sam. Sam took the towel but seemed unaware of the fact that he was letting most of it fall into the tub of cold water. Dean sighed and took the towel back and lifted Sam again, drenching himself in the process.

With the little more elbow room that the main room of the motel provided, Dean toweled Sam off and threw him a fresh pair of boxers. Sam looked down at them for a moment before rolling over onto the bed and burying himself in the sheets.

"Christ, do I have to do everything for you?"

Sam gave a short whine in response.

"Uh huh. Next I'll be feeding you soup like the spoon is an airplane. Come here." Dean undressed and redressed Sam. Dean was pretty sure he was only half-conscious throughout the whole ordeal. Hard to sleep when he was so worried about Sam. Dean tried to get as many layers as he could onto Sam, throwing a couple of his own henley's over Sam's head.

"I'll be right back," Dean said, although he wasn't sure Sam could hear him. "Just gonna throw these infected clothes into the washing machine in the laundromat across the street." Sam did nothing to show that he had understood or even heard Dean, so he scrawled a quick note and left it on the counter next to the keys to the Impala.

He was gone for, at most, fifteen minutes. Had struck up a short conversation with some guy doing his laundry two machines away from Dean. Thought it was odd that Dean was just going to leave his clothes in the machine and go back to his motel room. Dean had explained that the clothes were gross and old and if someone really wanted them that badly, they could have them, along with whatever illness Sam had contracted. For some reason, the guy had assumed Sam was a little kid. Asked how long Dean'd be in the area. Dean flirted a bit, just to keep himself busy. It'd been a while since Dean had talked to another human being beside Sam and local coroners.

They'd been on a string of nonstop hunts for weeks now, probably the reason why Sam got so sick. However, when it came down to it, Dean knew he'd only be around long enough for Sam to get well again, and until then there would be no time for anything but taking care of Sam, so he politely declined when the guy asked him if he wanted to get drinks sometime, but the point was, he was only gone like fifteen minutes.

And still, when he got back to the motel room, it looked like he had left Sam alone for days. There were blankets strewn everywhere and the smell of vomit hung in the air. Sam had locked himself up in the bathroom.

"Sammy?"

"M'fine. Just gimme a minute."

Dean busied himself with cleaning up the motel room, thinking of the time right after Sam left for Stanford, when he was more alone than he'd ever been in his life and he spent many a night feeling shitty because he'd drank more than he could handle. Dean had been in similar situations to Sam's right now, alone on a bathroom floor hugging a toilet bowl and wishing to just fall asleep for a long time. So he dragged the garbage can over to next to his own bed, since Sam's was still such a mess and probably completely infected and drenched in sweat.

He pulled back the covers, which were still laying made-up on the bed because Dean hadn't had the chance to sleep from the moment Sam got sick. Nothing he wasn't accustomed to, though. He grabbed one of the pillows off of Sam's bed, turned the pillowcase inside out and put it on his bed. Then he went over to the bathroom and leaned up against the doorframe and waited a moment.

"Why don't you come on out, man?"

"Dean, would you just leave me alone."

Dean pretended to think over that possibility for a second. "No. This is my job. Wouldn't want me to be unemployed like everyone else, now, would you?"

Sam kinda scoffed or laughed or maybe just exhaled too deeply, but he opened the door. Somehow he looked in worse condition than he had when Dean left. Dean moved to place the back of his hand against Sam's forehead but Sam ducked out of the way and shot Dean an irritated look before he could make an estimate on how much the fever had dropped. And he was capable of walking on his own, albeit very crookedly, but it was great progress if Dean could just ignore the way Sam looked so defeated and how his eyelids looked like bruises, except right along the rim of his eyes, that part was more of an angry red color. In short, Sam looked like shit, but Dean chose not to comment.

Sam staggered to his bed, but Dean grabbed his shoulders and redirected him toward Dean's bed. Neither of them said anything about it when Dean tucked Sam into the bed, pulling the blankets tight around him, and then climbed into the same bed and laid down on his back next to Sam, except on top of the sheets.

“Dean?”

“Shut up, Sam," Dean said tiredly. "I’ve got no other place to go.”

“No, Dean, I’m so cold.”

Dean knew what came next. They’d done it before, on hunts that require them to be outside overnight in snow or frigid temperatures. It happened more often when they were kids, when the heat in the motel wasn’t working right and Sam would sit in Dean’s lap and they would huddle for warmth. That sort of behavior slowed when they got older. Now it was only something they did in desperate times. Dean mulled over the situation a bit, deciding if this counted as desperate or not. Sam shivered again, as if the emphasize how cold he was.

“You get me sick and I swear to god… My revenge will be making you take care of me.”

“Yeah, like you’d let me take care of you. If I tried to get within a two yard radius of you, you would throw a bitch fit.” Sam’s words came out slowly and shakily, but it was a good sign that he was completing sentences and joking around. Maybe they were in the home stretch with whatever this is.

“Scoot over, Sasquatch.”

Sam uncurled himself a little and allowed room for Dean to drag himself under the covers and press his chest against Sam’s back, one of his arms tucking itself around Sam’s waist, pulling him as close as possible.

“Get some sleep, Sammy,” Dean advised, even though Sam was already half asleep, thinking of how Jessica used to forget that she was so much smaller than Sam. He thought about when he used to have nightmares at college and woke up with his brother’s name on his lips, looking for Dean to tell him that everything was alright. Jess would try to smooth the shakiness out of him. She would be the big spoon even though Sam was pretty close to being a six and a half foot giant. She would run her fingers through his hair and tell him that everyone was okay. She would update him on everyone’s life, tell him that Julia bombed her economics final and that Al was thinking about going home for the weekend even though his parents lived on the east coast, because he’d been missing his little sister lately and she just had her appendix out. And she always ended these moments the same way, telling him that wherever Dean was, he was okay, that nothing was wrong. This always made Sam want to call Dean and check in, make sure that Jessica was telling the truth, wanting to hear his older brother’s voice again, hear from Dean himself that everyone was doing fine. But Sam hadn’t called Dean since his freshman year. It felt wrong running to big brother after every nightmare. He chose this, he chose to be away from Dean, to run away to Stanford, and he had to face the consequences.

Sam had never really had a home, but thinking about Dean had made Sam homesick back then. So now, he laid as close to Dean as he could, absorbing all of his warmth and breathing in the smell of him.

Dean was the first to wake up in the morning. They were still quite entangled and Dean decided he wasn’t going to try to get out of bed yet. Sam needed his rest, after all. And anyway, it was nice to be close to Sam again. They hadn’t been like this since they were kids, since before John told Sam that he was too old to sit in Dean’s lap and hold Dean’s hand and sleep in Dean’s bed.

When Sam’s eyes fluttered open about an hour later, he was feeling significantly better. Dean packed their things and they were back on the road within the hour. Sam slept a lot in the Impala and Dean kept looking for a new hunt to hop on. Always best to keep busy. Keep moving forward.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter features panties. Your patience in this matter is greatly appreciated.

Dean ducked, the wendigo only just clipped the top of his head with its claws. He then threw himself forward, flicking his lighter to life, but he miscalculated the distance and the wendigo's reflexes and was thrown backwards into the wall. Normally, dry wall would just break apart and crumble, and that little bit of give allowed for injuries sustained by hunters to be minimal. However, Dean struck the wall right along a beam. Sam could hear all of the air escape Dean's lungs upon impact.

"Dean," Sam had shouted. He worried the force had been enough to knock Dean unconscious, but just as the wendigo turned its attention toward Sam, Dean sprung, torching the wendigo with relative ease. The monster's screams sounded an awful lot like Sam's, one final act of revenge against Dean. He shuddered at the sound, and keeled forward, left hand clutching the lower region of his ribcage. Sam pulled Dean's free arm over his own shoulders and half guided, half carried Dean back into the Impala. With Dean in no shape to drive, Sam took the keys out of Dean's pocket. Dean did little to protest this action.

Ten minutes later, Dean was laid out on his bed in the motel room, pillow over his face.

Sam asked, "any broken bones?" and only got a disgruntled moan in response.

Carefully, but firmly, Sam's fingertips roved over Dean's arms, legs, and ribcage, and when Dean didn't flinch away from the touch, Sam thought it was safe to say he made it out of that fight with all his bones intact. They were quiet for a long time. Sam moved quietly throughout the room while Dean attempted to sleep off some of the soreness that would no doubt plague him for the next few days. Dean had already been asleep for a couple of hours by the time Sam settled in for the night and allowed himself to sleep.

When he woke, he felt as though he had only just fallen asleep minutes ago, but when Sam checked the clock he learned that he had been asleep for close to eleven hours. Still tired, he rolled over and pulled the covers tighter around him. There was movement in the kitchen and the familiar smell of Dean's omelets, so he dared to open one eye. Dean was limping, hand still gripping his right side and wincing occasionally.

"Alright?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Ankle's busted, is all."

Sam closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but was kept up by the sound of Dean's labored breathing. "You sure you don't have a cracked rib or something? Because I swear to god, if you've got a punctured lung, I'm dropping you off at a hospital and leaving you there."

"Ha ha," Dean said.

"I'm serious. You might be getting too old for this. Haven't bounced back from injuries lately, not like you used to anyway."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Here. Made breakfast." He shoved the plate of eggs at Sam. He then went back to stand across the room, eating his own omelet while leaning up against the kitchen's counter. Sam muttered something about how he'd missed Dean's cooking. Dean was an excellent cook, but he rarely had the time or resources to get much done. Sam gratefully shoveled the eggs into his mouth and watched carefully as Dean just pushed his food around his plate.

When he was done, he stood and took Dean's plate and washed them both in the sink. While toweling off his hands he said, "You should let me check that out," nodding toward the spot where Dean was rubbing circles along the lowest couple of ribs.

He lowered his hand, looking at it as if it had betrayed him by unconsciously showing signs of pain. "Nah, I'm alright. Just gimme a few days, couple hours of sleep, I'll be good as new."

"Seriously, Dean."

Dean scoffed and was about to voice a sarcastic reply when he noticed that Sam had walked towards him, was barely a foot away, fingers tangling in the hem of Dean's shirt to encourage him to pull it off.

"God damn, Sammy, if you wanted to get my shirt off so badly, you could have just asked.”

Dean liked the little smile that appeared on Sam's face at that. He reached his hand back to grab the collar of his shirt and Sam backed off a few steps. Pulling the shirt over his head was painless, which was a good sign. Dean hated coming back from hunts only to find he was more banged up than he had originally thought.

He did not look down at his own chest to assess the damage. Instead he looked to Sam and used his reaction to gauge how bad the injuries were. Sam's eyes widened initially, then softened. He flicked his gaze up to meet Dean's, asking for permission to reach out and touch Dean, who did nothing to object.

“Doesn’t this hurt?” Sam asked as he pressed down on Dean’s ribs.

Dean shook his head.

“Come on, this bruise looks terrible. It’s got to hurt like hell.”

Dean looked down to find his chest engulfed in a hideous purple bruise. Sam was about to call Dean out on his I’m-above-feeling-pain, macho shit when he saw confusion cross Dean’s face.

“It doesn’t hurt. Sure looks like it should, but it doesn’t. Not on the surface, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothin'.”

Sam pursed his lips and nodded. He handed back Dean’s shirt and told Dean that if it still hurt in a few days, he’d have to go to a doctor. Dean scoffed.

And so they kept moving. Sam wrapped up Dean’s ankle as best he could. It was probably just a sprain. He tried to keep an eye on the bruise on Dean’s ribs, but Dean was careful to keep it covered, wanting Sam not to worry so much. When Sam did catch a glance, he noticed that the bruise was just getting worse with time, but when he accidentally-on-purpose bumped into Dean’s right side, Dean didn’t flinch.

A few days after the incident his ankle was doing a little better and they were tracking some vampires, looking for its nest even though Sam thought Dean was in no shape to be hunting an entire clan of vampires. He ran the idea of calling in some other hunters for help past Dean, but he turned Sam down before he had even finished developing his argument.

“We don’t need any help, Sam. We’ve done this a million times.”

Sam nodded and suggested that they go out to find something to eat.

“You go,” Dean said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty tired. I’m going to do a bit more research and then hit the hay. Maybe you should go out for a while. Get some fresh air, chase some tail, you know? Does a hunter no good to be cooped up like we’ve been lately.”

“Dean, I—“

“Go on, you crazy kid,” Dean teased. "I’ll be fine. I’ll actually probably grab something to eat in about an hour. Don’t worry about me.”

“Okay,” Sam said, slowly. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you in the morning,” Dean said without looking up from the laptop.

Sam headed out on foot. They were staying in a motel off Route 66 and the walk to the nearest bar wasn’t that far. He left the Impala for Dean to use. Probably for the best. If he went home with anyone, he wouldn’t want to have to deal with the car and where to leave it or if he should take it or whatever. He was free now, not tethered to anyone or anything.

At the bar, Sam used his fake credit card to buy this redhead a few drinks. Said his name was Derek, which he regretted, but she seemed to like it, with the way she kept saying it, over and over again.

She flirted well. Subtly enough that some people might even miss it. Named Alyssa and she was pretty perceptive. Picked up on a lot of Sam’s habits quickly. Asked him who he was worried about, because he kept chewing on his nails. He brushed off her concern and she knew better than to pry. Told very witty stories. Asked all the right questions at all the right times. And man, was she pretty. Had her make up done so her brown eyes looked large and innocent, but she acted like she knew how to take you apart piece by piece. She was all manners of hot.

They ended up back at her apartment, even though it felt like Sam was only going through the motions. She must have picked up on that because a few minutes later they were both still fully clothed and just making out on her couch like a couple of teenagers.

“Maybe you should just go?” She told Sam, tucking some of his hair behind his ear.

“Yeah, probably. I’m, uh. Sorry. You know, for… this.”

She shook her head, her red curls tossing playfully. “The night is young. I’ll probably just head out to another bar.”

“Well, sorry anyway. Have a good night, Liss,” he said, grabbing his jacket off the back of her armchair and headed out.

“I hope they're okay. Whoever you’re worrying about.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Sam pulled the door shut and wished things had been different, wished he could get to know Alyssa, pay more attention to her than he did this evening. She seemed smart, she was all poise and calculated moves and cunning. He couldn’t help but hope, as he was walking home, that she got everything she wanted in life.

Thinking about Alyssa was easier than worrying about Dean. Worrying about Dean felt idiotic, because even if there was something wrong, he wouldn’t let Sam do anything to help him, anyway.

The lights were off in the motel room. It was only a couple minutes after midnight, but Dean must have been asleep, because the Impala was in the parking lot. Still in the same spot, too. Sam wondered if Dean had gone out at all, struggled to recall the last time Dean had eaten anything.

Dean was sitting on his bed, doubled over, both arms clutched across his middle. The laptop was open next to him, web md open on the screen, but nothing typed in yet. Dean reached over and flicked the laptop shut when he noticed Sam staring at it. He then got up and crossed the room to grab his sweatshirt, as if to prove that he was fine. He seemed unable to stand all the way up, though.

”Heya Sammy,” he said.

“Jesus, Dean, what the hell happened?”

“Nothing happened. It’ll pass.”

“Dude, cut it out. If it hurts this much, you should want to go to the hospital. Think about it. Morphine and hot nurses.”

Dean did not respond, just sat back down on the bed with his knees against his chest and his eyes shut. Sam tried to figure out what John would do. Take Dean at his word and leave him here for a while and hunt down the nest by himself? Drop Dean off at the nearest hospital and hunt down the nest by himself?

“How long’ve you been like this?”

“What time is it?”

“Quarter after.”

“Hour or two?” He was quiet for a minute. Sam tried to figure out what to do with Dean, how to best care for him without needing to rush him to the hospital. “You weren’t gone long.”

“I can go back out again,” Sam joked.

“Wait, ‘quarter after’ what?”

“Midnight.”

Dean nodded.

“What do you want me to do?” Sam asked, helplessly. Dean always seemed to know what to do. Or, at the very least, he could always come up with a plan. Sam was just standing there, unsure of how to proceed, unused to being the caretaker. Stitching Dean back up or relocating his shoulder was easier than dealing with whatever this was.

“Go away.”

“You know I’m not going to do that. What do you need? Water? Blankets? Food?”

Dean cringed at the idea of food. “Nothing. Just go to bed.”

Sam poured a glass of water and left it on the bedside table anyway. Then he climbed into bed with his clothes still on, in case he would suddenly need to take Dean to the hospital. He tried to remember what side of the body the appendix is on. Dean hissed on occasion, even whimpered once, although Sam knew better than to ever bring it up.

When Dean slept, he would lie on his stomach, sprawled out and hugging his pillow. Sometimes, if he fell asleep while listening to music or reading Kurt Vonnegut novels or doing research, he’d be on his back with his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms crossed across his chest. Sam was the one who slept on his side. Always facing toward Dean, even if that meant having his back to the door, because he knew if anything happened, he could trust Dean to protect him. He did not need to be on high alert even when he was sleeping because he knew Dean was.

Dean was on his side, tucked into such a tight little ball one would never believe he was an over six foot, one hundred eighty pound, killing machine. He turned his head so he didn’t have to look at Sam, embarrassed at the fact that he could feel pain. He was a superhero to Sam once upon a time, now he was laid up in bed, clutching his right side, eyes watering, faced screwed up in agony.

“Dean?” Sam said louder than necessary. When Dean did not answer, Sam decided he was sick of the bullshit and dragged an unsteady Dean into the Impala and drove to the nearest emergency room.

*

A few hours later Dean was complaining about how hospital food is even worse than airplane food (not that he would actually know, since he was usually too busy hyperventilating on airplanes to have time for much else) and Sam was smacking his hand away and scolding him for scratching at his stitches. The way some nurse explained it to Sam, Dean had been bleeding internally over the past several days. Due to the blood loss, Dean had gone into shock and needed a simple surgery to get his liver to stop bleeding and to restore his blood pressure and replenish the lost blood.

When the hospital did release Dean early the next morning, he was given a small bottle of pain killers and told not to do anything that would aggravate the stitches over the next few days. So Sam spent most of his time cooking and driving and fussing, whereas Dean was forced to sit still for hours at a time and decided that the best way to fix this was to whine about it incessantly. Sam tried his best to just stay out of Dean's way as he healed and when Sam caught wind of another wendigo in the area, he called Bobby and asked him to put another hunter on the case, then drove clear across the country for a poltergeist. He wasn't about to lose Dean to some red eyed humanoid monster.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, the panty kink chapter. it's short. sorry. anyway, have fun.

There were some things that Sam did not need to know about his older brother.

When Sam was fifteen, he went leafing through Dean's dresser in search of god-even-knows-what. Probably socks. The Winchesters never seemed to have enough socks. Sam was convinced, when he was younger, that the washing machines at laundromats lived off a healthy diet of socks.

Sam was on a mission. He dug past the skin mags as if they were hardly even there, rooted around up to his elbow in old tee shirts stained with Dean's blood and motor oil, pushed aside pajama pants that had been worn by both Dean and Sam over the years, until eventually he came up for air with one sock in tow. He slipped the black sock on and wiggled his toes victoriously before diving back into the deep bottom drawer of the dresser. He uncovered another copy of Busty Asian Beauties, a few gum wrappers that had been folded into paper cranes and sailor's hats, seventeen cents, and a silver dagger, but still no sock.

He cringed at the idea of having to look under Dean's bed. Dean was not a messy person. He actually tended to keep his room neat and bare, to make packing up and leaving that much easier, but somehow, no matter how long they had been living somewhere, Dean managed to cram dirty laundry and pizza boxes with some left over crusts under his bed. It always had a peculiar odor to it, although, to most people, Dean's constant scent of leather and gunpowder and salt could also be considered peculiar. Sam mostly thought that it was goddamn sexy. Anyway, under the bed is not a place anyone ever wanted to go, but Sam really was not in the mood for wearing only one sock to school again so that his toes could be seen through the tears in his sneakers.

It wasn't as bad as Sam had worked it up to be. There seemed to be no toxic waste or other hazardous chemicals lurking under Dean's bed. In fact, there was really only a pair of old work boots and a shoebox under there. Curiosity got the better of him and Sam reached for the box.

Inside was even more porn (jesus christ, Dean) but rather than his usual anime or "busty asian beauties", one magazine seemed to be only filled with men. One page was dogeared, a picture of a man with very dark, wild hair and startlingly blue eyes wearing nothing but a backwards blue tie. Sam flipped through it quickly, managing to find one who looked a little like Dean, not just hard lines of muscle, but softer and freckled. Underneath the magazine was an open box of condoms and a pair of black lace panties with a note that said "one of your very own. sorry it's not pink like you like. -R.H."

Sam reorganized the contents of the box and shoved it back under the bed. He pulled a sock out of his brother's laundry hamper, sprayed it once with febreeze, and walked in a trance over to the bus stop. When he was shivering in his two-seater near the back of the bus, the seat with the wheel that no one else wanted and Sam could barely fit into because of his lanky limbs and all, he realized why he found the box under Dean's bed to be so startling. It's like when you meet someone new and you don't immediately think of them in a sexual context, and then after a while of knowing them they say something about what they did in bed with this guy one time or something and suddenly it dawns on you that that person is a sexual being.

Sam sat on the bus thinking over the contents of that box, imagining things he had never dared let himself imagine before: Dean dressed only in a skimpy pair of black lace panties, sprawled out on the bed, stroking himself. He pictured Dean in the kind of lingerie that was on Victoria Secret ads, with garter clips and sheer tights that came up mid thigh, accentuating the muscles in Dean's legs, or silk thongs with tiny bows and hints of lace, the head of Dean's cock sticking out over the top lace seam, leaking precome, Dean looking Sam right in the eye, biting his lower lip. He thought about coming home from school early to find Dean in just a tee shirt and panties, thought about whether Dean would do a stip tease for him or if he'd just take him right there on his bed, needing Sam.

When the bus pulled up to the school, Sam had to hold his sweatshirt in front of him and wondered how he was going to get through the school day without picturing Dean in a wide assortment of lingerie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> castiel kinda made a cameo appearance.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean had always been fond of cheesy pick up lines, so whenever Sam stumbled across one, he was happy to share. There were the classics, "did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" and the cringe-worthy, "I lost my number, can I have yours?". So occasionally Sam would come home with "Kiss me if I'm wrong, but dinosaur's still exist, right?" and Dean would pretend to swoon and they'd laugh about it.

This one summer, Sam decided to pick up work at a local camp. He was a counselor for eighteen kids between the ages of five and eight. The pay was decent and the kids were adorable and it got him out of the house, away from John and hunting for a bit. Unfortunately, that also meant weeks without Dean. For the most part, the job was good, but there was always one thing that Sam hated about that camp and it was the awful camp songs. They would get stuck in his head for months, the lyrics twisting around in his head until the songs made no sense anymore. (Not that they all made sense in the first place. Singing about a moose named Fred who liked to drink his juice in bed was mind-numbing.) There was one song, though, that was always quite clear in Sam's head. A song that was the corniest almost love song the world had ever seen.

In the Impala with another five hundred miles in front of them and Dean nodding off behind the wheel but refusing to let Sam drive because he's "totally fine, Sammy, don't worry," Sam decided it was time to share the song with Dean.

At first, he just hummed it to himself, trying to pique Dean's interest.

"What's that?" Dean asked.

"Oh, just this dumb camp song from that year I was a counselor."

Dean laughed, "Jesus, Sam, that was ages ago. You still remember that?"

Sam just went right on humming.

"Alright, come on, share with the class," Dean prompted.

This particular song was a little slower than the ones that were about angry squirrels forgetting where they hid their nuts or pink pajamas worn in summer time or red wagons that no one was allowed to ride in. Sam cleared his throat dramatically. "Ahem." (Dean rolled his eyes) "Your eyes are like diamonds, your hair is like silk."

Dean nodded his head back and forth to the cheery little song.

"Ba da da da dum," Sam sang, tapping the dashboard with each pointless syllable. "I'll love you always like cornflakes and milk. Ba da da da dum. So please help me to love you as much as I love cornflakes and milk ba da da da dum, cornflakes and milk ba da da da dum, cornflakes and milk I love."

Dean tilted his head backed with laughter. "You should sing that to someone you really love. Make sure they know that they are second only to cornflakes and milk, that they are so close to the most important thing to you."

"I don't like wheeties or even cheerios," Sam continued, smirk forming on his lips as he unbuckled his seatbelt and slid across the seat toward Dean. "Ba da da da dum," he sang loudly into his invisible microphone. "You've got the secret that only kellogg's knows. Ba da da da dum. So please help me to love you as much as I love cornflakes and milk ba da da da dum, cornflakes and milk ba da da da dum, cornflakes and milk I love."

"Goddamn, Sammy, I've never been so turned on by cereal before," Dean said. Sam just barely touched his lips to Dean's temple and slid back over to his side of the car, eyes cast out the window, missing the days when everything with Dean was this effortless. Now life was always so serious. They had no time for jokes and banter and bad camp songs. No more stolen kisses and comforting arms slung around narrow waists. They were adults now. It was time to start acting like it.

"Tell me about your first kiss," Sam said.

"Jesus, Sammy, why do you want to know about that?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't remember the story well. You've told me before, but I like the way you talk about it. So tell me again."

Dean swiped his hand over his mouth once then drummed his hands on the steering wheel. "Let's see, let's see. Her name was Robin. We were sixteen and she played guitar. I tried to get her to teach me how to play 'Hey Jude' but I was never any good, tone deaf as hell, you know. But yeah, it uh... she meant a lot to me, at the time."

Sam listened intently, eyes focused on his hands folded in his lap, his left thumb running over a torn cuticle on his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean's grip tighten around the steering wheel, gearing up for the question Sam hadn't even asked yet, but Dean knew he would ask. He knew Sam. So Sam pointedly avoided looking at his brother and asked, "What about the first time you kissed a guy?"

Dean sighed and said, "In Santa Monica with a complete stranger after this one time I went to California to try to get you to come home. I saw you with Jessica and Brady, though, and you looked so happy that I skipped town and I figured, when in Rome." He shrugged as if none of this really mattered, but really he was unsure of what Sam would respond to first.

"You came after me?"

"Yeah, once or twice not long after you walked out. I checked up on you pretty much whenever Dad wasn't around and I was on that side of the continent."

Sam nodded, then, backtracking, asked, "Did you sleep with him?"

"Yes." Dean stared straight ahead, hesitant to elaborate, but he did when he felt Sam's eyes still on him. "I told him that I was the kinda guy who was going to fuck him and never call again and he said that was exactly what he was looking for. I think he said something about how he came to California in order to 'find himself' or whatever."

Sam considered this for a long time. Eventually Dean couldn't take it anymore and he broke the silence. "What about you? Your first kiss?"

"Depends on what story you want."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, technically, I guess you were my first kiss."

"What're you talking about Sammy?"

Sam laughed. "I was like five or six and we were staying with Bobby. He was boiling hot dogs in the kitchen because it was too damn cold to go outside and try to get that damn grill to work."

"Hey, no talking shit about Sally. She was a good grill."

"You burned off your eyebrows like three times using that old thing."

"And I learned that I look extra sexy without eyebrows."

"Right, well, anyway. Bobby was cooking and you were doing homework at the kitchen table and I was bored out of my mind and you weren't paying enough attention to me."

"Always been a needy fucker."

"Shut up. I climbed up into your lap and like clung to you like a damn koala for hours."

They had even eaten dinner like that. Sam got a bit of ketchup on Dean's shirt and it was one of his favorites, an old one of John's that Dean had just gotten big enough to almost fit into. Dean rolled his eyes when Sam started apologizing at a mile a minute and then he and Bobby started talking about Dean's schoolwork. Bobby said that if Dean didn't finish his homework, he'd to take him out back and put Dean down like a rabid dog.

Dean had pulled his brother closer, resting Sam on his hip so he could balance dishes in his free hand and drop them into the sink. Being the severe little kid that he was, Dean said something like 'I wouldn't mind'.

"I told you that I would, mind, that is, and I kissed you right on the mouth. Bobby had to sit me down, later, and tell me that I wasn't really supposed to kiss you. Being just a dumb kid I insisted that I loved you, and that made it okay, and he had to explain the difference between familial love and romantic love and I still didn't quite get it but eventually he got tired and sent me to bed." Sam sighed. "I still don't quite see a difference, honestly."

Dean was blushing. He said, "And the alternate story?"

Not wanting to think about Amy, his real first kiss while working a case when he was a teenager, Sam said, "Spin the bottle, girl named Megan. Over eager and too much tongue with some sappy song called 'torn' playing in the background. I only remember that because she kept saying that it was 'our song' and she burned it onto a cassette for me."

"Who was better?" Dean teased.

Sam smirked. "Oh you, by a long shot." And for some reason, Dean smiled a little smugly at that.

A few days later, Sam was flipping through channels and he came across a song that sounded familiar. He hesitated on it. Dean bitched about the pop music but Sam shushed him.

"Dean, this was the song I was talking about. The one playing in the background when I had my first kiss."

Dean teased Sam for liking a girl with such terrible taste in music and just to tease back, Sam started describing the event of his first kiss in detail. "She had this gorgeous brown hair that I tucked behind her ear, chin tilted up, not even playing at subtlety."

"Aw, Jesus, Sammy. Spare me."

Sam slid across the seat so he was right beside Dean, voice low but not shy. He ran a hand behind Dean's ear, brushing back hair that wasn't long enough to need to be tucked back.

He mentioned that this girl really liked to nibble at his ear and before Sam really thought about what he's doing, he demonstrated, taking Dean's earlobe between his teeth. Dean laughed and shrugged away, acting disturbed by Sam's antics. He pushed Sam back to his side of the car easily.

For a little while, the boys were quiet. Other songs played. Rain started. Eventually they pulled onto this deserted stretch of road and Dean pulled up the song on his phone. He played it and Sam was too tired to ask questions. He just flicked his eyebrows and Dean shrugged.

When the chorus came around, Sam was in Dean's space again, humming along to the song right into Dean's ear. It felt warm but made Dean shudder. Sam's lips brushed against Dean's ear as he mouthed the words to the song. Then Dean turned his head abruptly and Sam's still moving mouth crashed into Dean's. Dean just kissed Sam once before returning his attention to the road in front of him and Sam blushed, wishing he had it in him to ask Dean to pull over so they could make out like high schoolers in the backseat of the Impala.


End file.
